In the first jet sat the late Madam Director’s prime clone, the former bodyguard. The second clone was dead, her head a gory ruin. The Madam Director was also dead. The remains of Hawthorne’s security team had poked through the wreckage of the bullet train. The blast that had nearly killed everyone in the tunnel had come from her bulky chair.
In the jet, Hawthorne brooded about that. If she had wanted to kill him and had been willing to die to do it, why hadn’t she exploded her chair during their meeting? The prime clone, the former bodyguard, had provided a possible answer. It was the reason why the prime clone made the emergency trip to New Baghdad with him and with Captain Mune in the last jet.
Captain Mune’s people had questioned the prime clone, the surviving bodyguard named Lisa Aster. They had pumped her with interrogation drugs. What they’d learned troubled Hawthorne. The late Madam Director had feared the cyborgs, had talked about it ever since the second clone had returned from the Neptune System. According to the prime clone, the bodyguard, the second clone from the Neptune System had spent several hours alone with the Madam Director. That was highly unusual, according to the bodyguard clone. Afterward, the Madam Director had seemed disoriented.
As the jet continued to flash across the Atlantic Ocean, Hawthorne came to a decision. The clone from the Neptune System, the one whose head had exploded, had been tampered with by the cyborgs. That clone must have inserted the bomb in the Madam Director’s chair. That the bomb had passed Captain Mune’s security x-rays likely meant the Neptune-tampered clone had used advanced technology. By the compromised clone’s actions, the cyborgs had sent her back here in order to assassinate him, the head of Social Unity.
The conclusion was obvious: the cyborgs were his enemies. Hawthorne didn’t know why the cyborgs had rebelled, but that didn’t matter now. Getting back to New Baghdad before word of the assassination attempt leaked out was what mattered.
Hawthorne leaned toward the polarized canopy, staring down at the waves. It was intolerable that the head of Social Unity had to scurry across Earth. They were losing the war, and now a needed ally had become a liability. Hawthorne pressed his forehead against the pilot’s seat ahead of him. He closed his eyes and began to do some deep thinking.
General Hawthorne survived the trip and landed at New Baghdad. Captain Mune immediately led the city’s security teams through the vast, underground megalopolis. An hour later, Hawthorne received a call from Chief Yezhov of Political Harmony Corps.
“General Hawthorne,” Chief Yezhov said over a vidscreen. “I’m getting reports you’re back in the city.”
Hawthorne sat at his desk with a computer stylus in hand, as if he was hard at work on a project. He stared into the vidscreen, attempting to appear impatient because he was so busy. It was a ploy to confuse Yezhov.
“Yes, I’m back,” said Hawthorne.
The head of Political Harmony Corps wore a scarlet uniform and a black plastic helmet held in place by a chinstrap. He had pale skin, washed-out blue eyes and a ridiculous little mustache, twin dots under his nose. He was short and thin and possessed an almost nonexistent chin.
“How—” Chief Yezhov frowned. “I thought you were in South America.”
“Yes.”
Chief Yezhov blinked like a reptile. “…I’ve heard rumors that the Madam Director is dead.”
“You are amazingly well-informed. I’d hoped to keep her heart attack secret a little while longer.”
“…I see. A heart attack,” Yezhov mused. “That is most unfortunate. We shall mourn the great lady.”
“Orders for a temporary blackout of communications are about to go in effect,” Hawthorne said. “Any unauthorized back-channel use will be severely punished.”
“You of course do not mean Political Harmony Corps.”
“The delicate nature of yet another Director-in-Chief dying so soon after Enkov’s accident means we must proceed with extreme caution. While I applaud your devotion to duty, I must insist on your cooperation in the coming investigation. There is a possibility that some of your deputies have exceeded their authority.”
“It is with the greatest reluctance that I must disagree with you, General.”
“The possibility occurred to me,” Hawthorne said. “If you will look out your window, I imagine you’ll see a squad of cybertanks patrolling the premises. It might seem highhanded or excessively militant, but a breach of the emergency blackout orders will result in a cybertank assault on PHC Headquarters.”
“…you take heavy responsibilities upon yourself, General.”
“That may be true. Since we shall be working so closely together in the future, Chief Yezhov, I feel you should be the first to hear about my promotion.”
“You’re stepping onto the Directorate?”
“I hold the maxims of Social Unity too highly for such a move,” Hawthorne said. “Instead, the remaining directors have just ratified a new rank for me. For the duration of the emergency I am the Supreme Commander of Inner Planets.”
“The directors voted on this?” Yezhov asked with obvious disbelief.
“The surviving directors,” Hawthorne said.
Yezhov’s pale reptilian eyes narrowed. “Did more than one director have a heart-attack?”
“Including the Madam Director, there were three.”
“…I see.”
“I dearly hope you do, Chief Yezhov, as I need your cooperation for the coming fight. I may count on it, yes?”
“PHC will never cease struggling for ultimate victory.”
“I am a military man and am used to something a little less ambiguous.”
“…I shall cooperate with you, General. Excuse me, Supreme Commander. May I be the first to congratulate you on your elevation in status.”
“Thank you, Chief. If you would be kind enough to arrive at my headquarters in the next half-hour, I will outline my revised policies. And please, no clones this time.” Hawthorne referred to Yezhov’s use of a clone during the initial coup that had gained him, Hawthorne, control of Social Unity.
Chief Yezhov pursed his lips. “May I be indelicate enough to ask for assurances?”
“That will be one of my newest principles,” Hawthorne said. “Social Unity will only survive this ongoing crisis with the highest display of trust between its members.”
“I must trust you?”
“Either that, Chief Yezhov, or trust my cybertanks to do their duty.”
“I agree. A new era of trust will help stiffen resolve. There has been far too much distrust lately.”
“If it’s any consolation, Chief, I need men like you if we’re going to defeat the Highborn.”
“Men like me, Supreme Commander?”
“Cunning infighters with a gift for assassination,” Hawthorne said.
“You give me too much credit.”
“We shall see. A half-hour, Chief. Then—”
“I understand. I’m on my way.”
-7-
Grand Admiral Cassius, the leader of the Highborn, stood in a viewing port of the Hannibal Barca. It was the nearest of the Doom Stars to Earth. The Grand Admiral admired the blue planet. South America was in sight, with heavy cloud cover over the Amazon River Basin.
Cassius had iron-colored hair and gray eyes. He stood like a granite statue, but there was a terrible intensity in his stare. He wore his admiral’s uniform, complete with a Stellar Cross pinned to his chest and above it a Platinum Nebula. He had won the Platinum Nebula, the highest medal in the Social Unity Space Force, for his brilliant victory of the Second Battle of Deep Mars Orbit in 2339. That had been before the Highborn Rebellion. There, twelve years ago, he had broken the combined space fleets of the Mars Rebels and the Allied forces of the Jupiter Confederation.
The Grand Admiral heard a door open behind him. There was rustling and shuffling. The Hannibal Barca was presently under pseudo-gravity caused by rotation. With the shuffling sounds came a heavy odor. There were also low, angry mutterings.